let us be grateful (day 100).

Dear Omma,

Yesterday marked the 100th day after your passing. According to Korean custom, this is the end of the mourning period. How can I grasp the end of mourning when I’m just starting to process your non-presence?

I’ve found myself reaching for coping mechanisms you’d find both mortifying and maybe just a bit endearing (maybe? let’s hope so). I speak about you and your passing with more opportunity than I should: “How would I like my coffee? Black, my mom just passed, thanks.” It’s almost as if, by repeating it, I’ll finally grasp that it really and truly happened. That maybe others will glimpse there was a time when I didn’t look as if I was constantly on the verge of tears. But mostly, by constantly saying it, I have opportunity to keep you alive, even if only through memory and tribute (blessings to those who asked what kind of woman you are - in a word, kind).

My reading list, full of books about near-death experiences and grieving, pretty much guarantees I won’t be invited to any book clubs or cocktail parties any time soon (repeated thanks to those who continue to reach out nonetheless…rest assured, I’ll be sure to bring up my mom over drinks!). But this research also gives me comfort - that you went peacefully and surrounded in love; and reassurance - that we are still enveloped by your love and care for us.

We’ve each had an Omma ‘experience’ since your passing: Dad feels your joy every morning when he prays, and you sent a ray of sunshine down after Josh scattered some of your ashes at Joshua Tree. You’ve come to me in ways I’d anticipated, as in my dream, with you larger than-in-life and wearing a white dress and red & green vest. As I told you I was doing OK, I also regretted that I didn’t have more to say…different from my awake life, when I’ve wanted so often to pick up the phone to call or text you. You’ve also come to me in unexpected ways, as on the subway platform, when I uncharacteristically paused to help the blind student from Liberty find his way through the station, and I was distinctly reminded of your wish to have your eyes donated so you could give someone else the gift of sight.

This year’s holidays, also the first time being in the house ‘without’ you, felt conspicuously quiet…but you were still ‘there’. As I stood crying tears into the kimchi I was putting away (you were always the first to help with clean up after Christmas dinner), Laura came to hug me and tell me again how kind you always were. Dad and I sat by the fire one night, reading the stories you’d left us in your journal, and he told me about how he’s been set up a couple of times. The thought of him being with someone who’s not you is even harder than the thought of him being alone, and he reassured me there is no one like you. When I joked with Dad it was OK for him to get a hearing aid, now that you’re not here to nag him, he gave a rueful smile and said he’d still rather be able to see you.

Your not ‘being’ here is heartache, Omma…wanting to see or touch you reminds me of how it felt to have my first crush: longing for something that wouldn’t happen. Just like I didn’t know then when or how I would start to feel better, I’m not sure of how long or what will make me feel joyful, or even steady, again. I know I should turn toward joy however it comes - it’s what you’d want. Dad told me he’d never forget your expression upon learning about your cancer diagnosis, and how you immediately said, “let us be grateful, let us be grateful.”

In just a couple of days, it will be your forty-third wedding anniversary, as well as the eve of a new year. I’d be lying if I proclaimed I’m ready to conquer 2019 or whatever joyous euphemism I’m supposed to shout at the start of a new year…for it will be the first in which you don’t live among us, Omma.

So instead, I will offer up a prayer as you would have done, and because to be alone and without you is what I most fear…

Let us be grateful, let us be grateful.

your ray shines down to where your ashes were scattered in joshua tree.